


The Restricted Section

by Rinawen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Smut, yep more pwp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinawen/pseuds/Rinawen
Summary: Harry is offered the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts, and it could not be coming at a better time. He’s shocked to find out that Hermione will also be at Hogwarts this term, stepping in for a newly retired Madame Pince.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 144





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters or any part of the world featured in this fic, nor am I making any money. I just like to play here. 
> 
> A/N: Hi all! I’m a tad nervous posting this since I haven’t written Harmony since ye olde golden days of Portkey, and I haven’t steadily written fic in about a decade, but recently I’ve been feeling inspired! Hope you enjoy this little smutlet!
> 
> A huge thanks to Tweetysrcclt9 for beta’ing! Now go read her stuff. 
> 
> And a special shout to Harmony & Co. for just generally being awesome.

The owl landed on Harry heavily, talons sinking into his bare chest. 

“Ugh…not again Horace,” Harry groaned, mind unfocused, his foggy brain still awakening from a heavy sleep. “We’ve talked about this.” 

The tiger owl hooted primly in reply, tufts raised in what could only be assumed as judgment. For the millionth time, Horace reminded Harry of a stodgy butler always ready with a dry retort. As if he could read his mind, Horace dug his talons deeper into Harry’s chest. 

“Oi, ger’ off me,” Harry shooed. Horace ignored this, instead stubbornly choosing to stick a leg out at Harry. 

“Fine, I’ll take it,” Harry growled, sitting up on one elbow. He undid the tie linking the parchment to Horace’s leg, at which point the owl immediately flew off. “Bloody menace,” Harry muttered as he reached the nightstand for his glasses, wincing as he stretched his arm. He rubbed the sleep out of his bleary eyes and inspected the source of his pain. It wasn’t where the sodding bird had dug its claws, but rather, the large, deep purple bruise coating the length of his left ribs, courtesy of his latest assignment. It seemed like Britain would never be rid of Dark Wizards. Harry yearned for a day that he did not wake up with some new bodily ache. 

One could dream. 

With a sigh, Harry finally unrolled the parchment. He instantly recognized the neat, compact script of one Minerva McGonagall. 

“Dear Mr. Potter,” it started. 

_“I am writing to you in the hopes that you can assist me with a rather serious dilemma. It seems that I am out a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for this upcoming term._

_As you may well know, this position has been rather volatile—there hasn’t been a single professor that has lasted more than one year in decades. I thought that perhaps this last professor would finally break the cycle, and indeed it seemed that way up until about a week ago when I received word that she is in a family way. While I am indeed quite thrilled for Mrs. Angelina Wood and of course, Oliver, her decision to focus on building her new family has thrown a wrench into my perfectly ordered plans for the new term. Being that it starts in a week, I am quite vexed as to where I am going to find a suitable replacement if you decide to decline my offer. Yes, Mr. Potter—I am offering you this position. I cannot think of anyone more appropriate for the role. And while I am completely aware of your rising star in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I do not think taking a year’s sabbatical to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts would impede your career in the long term, since I highly doubt you’ll last past that._

_It would be a great honor to have you and you would be doing Hogwarts a great service – yet again. Please consider my offer and respond post haste. I am truly at my wit’s end._

_Kindest regards,_

  
_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Headmistress_  
_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry”_

Harry sat there, mouth agape, reading and re-reading the words. 

What were the odds? 

*~*~*

“I have news,” Hermione announced mysteriously as she put a half-eaten chip back into her basket.

They were reconvened at their weekly Wednesday lunch, one of their favorite standing traditions. Though, not to be outdone by weekly Friday night drinks, and weekly Sunday suppers at the Burrow, and while not a weekly tradition by any means although it might as well be—Thursday afternoon tea. 

No wonder they were all single.

“I have news as well,” Harry interjected, nursing his ale. He felt relaxed and at peace with his decision, and couldn’t wait to drop the bomb on his best mates. 

“Oh, you go first,” Hermione conceded. “I’m sure it’s more interesting.”

“No, Hermione, I don’t want to steal your thunder,” Harry responded, thinking it must be something about her dissertation. He knew she was close to deciding her topic.

“Oh, for bloody sakes, one of you go,” Ron said with an eye roll. 

“Fine,” Harry agreed, having already been bursting at the seams to tell them. “I’m taking a sabbatical from the DMLE. McGonagall offered me the job of Defense professor at Hogwarts.”

Ron and Hermione both dropped their forks with a clatter. 

“You’re joking,” Hermione said, eyes wide. 

Harry looked affronted. “What, know anyone else who’s defeated the evilest wizard of all time?” 

“No, it’s not that,” Hermione said delicately. “Of course, you’re more than qualified—you may even be the best Defense professor Hogwarts will ever have after Dumbledore. It’s just that, well,” Hermione’s eyes grew bright. “I’m going to be the Hogwarts librarian for the next term! That was my news.”

It was Harry’s turn to look surprised. “What? McGonagall didn’t mention that at all in her note. When did this happen?”

Hermione beamed. “About a week ago! Minerva and I were having lunch and—” 

Ron interrupted, his mouth still half full of chips. “Wait a second—you were having _lunch_ with _Professor McGonagall_?”

Hermione glared at him. “Thank you for that interruption, Ronald,” she huffed. “May I continue or do you have anything else to add before you finish chewing?”

Before Ron could say anything, Harry kicked him under the table. 

“Ow!” He glowered at Harry but remained otherwise silent. 

“As I was saying before I was _disrupted_ ,” she chanced another glare at Ron, making Harry grin. “Yes, _Minerva_ and I have lunch now and then. She’s been helping me narrow down the topic for my dissertation, and now that I have, she suggested that the Hogwarts library would be a wonderful resource and a rather peaceful environment for me to focus on my work. And since Madame Pince is finally retiring, the stars aligned for me to be able to take up the post—for the year, at least, while I finish my doctoral and Minerva can find a more permanent replacement. When did Minerva contact you, Harry?”

“I got the owl this morning,” Harry replied, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on his chest where Horace had landed. “I wrote back telling her that I accepted immediately, and waltzed right into the office this morning to announce my sabbatical. Kingsley had a conniption fit.” Harry looked pleased as plum by this. 

“You’re not afraid this will hinder your career?” Ron asked, almost as if he were surprised at himself to be asking such a thoughtful question. 

“Says the man who quit the Academy to help run his brother’s shop,” Hermione countered. 

“Oi you know my arm isn’t the same anymore, after the splinch,” Ron said defensively. “Aurors have to be impeccably fit, and unfortunately, I did not make the cut.” 

“Hemione, if you roll your eyes any more they’ll stay that way permanently,” Harry teased.

Hermione flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder. “Harry, I’m glad you’re taking some time off,” she said earnestly. “You deserve a break. You’ve been fighting Dark Wizards literally since you were one. You’re twenty-five. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “we all know the promotion at the DMLE will be there waiting for you when you return.” 

*~*~*

“Harry, you’ve remembered to pack your spare set of glasses?” Ron asked fretfully as he stood on the edge of Platform 9 ¾, which was abuzz with all of the excited students returning for a new term. “You both promise you’ll write every day?”

“Yes mum,” Harry responded with a grin. Ron was literally becoming Molly Weasley before his very eyes. 

Hermione reached out and enveloped Ron in a big hug. “Oh, honestly Ron, Hogwarts is not that much farther away than Dublin and it’s not like we became estranged while I was at the Institute,” she added pragmatically. “I’m sure you’ll visit often enough. Maybe George’ll let you run the Hogsmeade shop for a bit so we can be closer together?”

“I’m working on it,” Ron replied, patting her on the back. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Merlin knows we’ve been trying for years now, right Harry?” Hermione responded cheekily.

Harry shook his head, grinning. He was going to miss watching them banter; it provided a never-ending source of amusement.

The train sounded its last call. “Hermione, we’ve better hurry and find a compartment before they’re all taken,” Harry suggested. “I don’t know if I can stand the silence of a handful of terrified first-years just yet.” 

Hermione glared at him. “Then you should have _floo’d_ to Hogsmeade. They’re _your students_ now, Harry! Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother with either of you…” Hermione stalked away toward the train, grumbling under her breath. 

“She’s yours now,” Ron said with a contented sigh.

“We’ll miss you too, mate,” Harry said. “Watch over Teddy for me?” Being this far away from Teddy was the one major pain-point of his decision to teach at Hogwarts, but he promised the boy he’d visit at least once a month, and Andromeda assured that she’d bring him up to visit as well.

“You know I will. He spends more time at the Burrow than he does in his own home anyway—Mum is definitely feeling her empty nest!”

“Thanks, mate. See you soon!” Harry called out as he chased after Hermione. 

*~*~*

The train ride to Hogwarts proved uneventful. Well, uneventful considering the constant stream of faces casually pressing themselves to the glass doors of their compartment, and the loudly hushed whispers of students proclaiming their various theories. 

“Harry Potter is on the train—he’s here in this compartment. I heard he’s the new Defense professor.”

“Oh really, I heard he’s the new Headmaster—taking over for McGonagall. He’ll be the youngest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever had!”

“I was told that he is undercover trying to unmask an evil plot that’s afoot at the school…it’s why Madame Pince was sacked. She was embroiled and was caught.”

He pretended to read the paper as he listened, smirking. Hermione had immediately passed out the second the train began rolling. She was curled up gracefully in the seat across him, one arm underneath her head, the other still clutching a book— _Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle_. It occurred to Harry that he still didn’t know what her dissertation focus was.

Harry peeked out the window and watched as the towers of Hogwarts castle came into view.

_Home._

He was looking forward to spending his first peaceful year at Hogwarts. He didn’t return for his seventh year, rightfully feeling his time as a student had ended, despite Hermione’s protestations. A part of him had also been afraid, at the time, that too much had happened—he’d seen too many of his loved ones die within the castle walls for him to be able to focus on anything but those painful memories. But now, enough time had passed, and he felt thoroughly that this was the right thing to do, the right step to take. Perhaps he’d even gain some closure he didn’t know he needed. 

He gently shook Hermione awake. “Hermione, luv, we’re about there.” 

She moaned a protest but blinked her eyes open nonetheless. “Harry—why’d you let me fall asleep? I’ll be up all night now!” 

Harry smiled. “After the ridiculous feast, we’re about to eat? You’ll be comatose.” 

*~*~*

Harry was right. After the feast, he could barely drag Hermione up the moving stairs. Led by Neville, current Professor of Herbology, they navigated their way through the crowds of students being escorted to their dormitories by the House Prefects. Upon seeing Harry, the students dutifully parted for him. You’d think that by now he’d be used to the long stares and awed looks, but they still made him somewhat self-conscious. 

“Just like old times, eh Harry?” Neville said good-naturedly. 

He led them down what had once been the forbidden third-floor corridor, and through a large set of doors that led into an unfamiliar wing of the castle. 

After all the after-hours adventuring he’d done, Hogwarts could still surprise him. 

“This is where your rooms are,” Neville informed them. “This whole area is spelled so that only staff can come through here. McGonagall didn’t want crowds of students loitering around in front of your room, Harry, asking for autographs before breakfast each morning,” he said jovially. “Reckon she made a good call.” 

Neville led them to a portrait of a Medieval witch wearing a black conical headpiece and stern look on her face. “Password?” she asked, with an air that indicated she already disliked the lot standing before her. 

“Caveat Lector,” Neville replied. The portrait swung open. “After you,” Neville motioned to Hermione.

Hermione stepped through first, followed by Neville. They were now in what can only be assumed to be a small, cozy common room. “This is your common room,” Neville confirmed. “Hermione, your private rooms are up those stairs,” he said, pointing to a spiral staircase on the right side of the room. “Harry, yours are there,” he pointed to an identical staircase on the left-hand side. “Currently only we three know your password, but the portrait has standing orders to change it every week so you best make sure you’re communicating with her. She’s awfully temperamental and loves attention, so I recommend you always treat her with politeness and civility. Ask her how her day is going, and all that.” 

Harry turned to look at Hermione who’d remained surprisingly silent during their walk through the castle. “I think she’s about to keel over,” he whispered to Neville. 

“Right, it’s late, and tomorrow we've got an early start. I should get going,” Neville said. “Want to join me and Hannah for lunch in our quarters tomorrow? I’m sure she’d love you both to pop around.”

“I’d love that, Neville,” Hermione smiled at him sleepily. 

“Err…yes, of course, count us in,” Harry added.

Neville disappeared behind the portrait hole. 

“I’m knackered,” Hermione half-yawned. “I think I’m going upstairs and passing out. You?”

Harry sighed. “I should start devising lesson plans,” he said sheepishly. 

For a second, all the exhaustion left Hermione’s eyes, replaced with exasperation. But then she yawned again, and the look was gone. “Honestly, at this point, this is no longer my battle,” she mumbled to herself as she began climbing up the spiral staircase that led to her room. “This is no longer my concern, he is a grown man, he can handle this himself...” 

“Good night!” he called out to her with a grin. 

*~*~*

Harry startled in his sleep, the sudden feeling of something extremely cold sitting on his bare chest. “Horace?” he mumbled sleepily. “If that’s you again I’m going to fry you in the fireplace and have you for supper.” 

Instead of the usual indignant hoot, he felt a second sensation of something equally frigid against the side of his right calf. He turned on his side.

“Hermione.” 

There she was, nestled up against him, eyes wide and brightly illuminated by the moon shining through his window. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Harry groaned. “Did you also transfigure yourself into an icicle?” he asked, suddenly recognizing the cold sensations as her hands and feet. 

Hermione unabashedly snuggled closer. “I’m freezing, and you are sooo warm,” she sighed contentedly against him. “Please don’t make me get up and walk back to my room. I’ll help you with your lesson plans.” 

Harry sighed and turned into her, pulling her closer and placing his hand on top of hers where it sat against his chest. “Fine, but you better let me sleep now. We can get up early and look over what I’ve come up with so far.” 

“Is it Expelliarmus? Is that what you’ve come up with?”

“Go. To. Sleep.” Harry commanded with irritation. He didn’t want to admit that she was right. 

_Curse her._

*~*~*

The next morning when he woke up, she was already gone. He put on a dressing robe, intent on finding her and making sure she honored her promise of helping him with lesson plans – at least just for this week, while he got his bearings. He went downstairs to their common area and found her there, sitting on a couch with a book in her hand, long bare legs extended casually out from beneath the oversized sleeping shirt she wore. The sunlight was pouring in through the tall windows, illuminating her and the veritable breakfast feast that was spread out on the coffee table before her—tea, eggs on toast, porridge, fruit, jams, muffins, and oatcakes.

“The House Elves heard you’re here,” Hermione motioned to the breakfast display. 

“Well, wouldn’t want to disappoint them,” Harry said, sitting down in an armchair across from her and preparing himself a plate. “I could get used to this. Dinner in the Great Hall was wonderful and all, but would love the occasional meal where I’m not being gawked at while I stuff my face.” 

Hermione dropped her book and looked at him sympathetically. “They’ll get over it eventually. It’ll pass. They’re teenagers. As soon as they settle and their love lives start going bonkers, they’ll completely forget about who you are and cease seeing you as anything other than another annoying professor they have to turn in inches to.” 

“Gee, what a pleasant pep talk,” Harry said dryly. “You’re lucky you’re just going to be the overbearing shrew librarian that constantly shushes everyone, and don’t have to actually teach them anything.”

Hermione threw her book at him. “When you’re done with breakfast, come find me upstairs so we can go over your plans for the day, _Professor_.” And with that, she hopped right off the couch and stalked upstairs to her rooms. 

*~*~*

After breakfast, Harry went upstairs to his room to shower and dress for the day. He wasn’t the type of person who fussed overly much about his appearance, but he assumed he might at least try to be presentable and make a good impression on his students. He wanted to give off an air of authority, but not so imperious that it would terrify—he already received enough awed looks as it was. 

He chose to nod to his house and wear a light burgundy jumper over his white collared shirt and grey trousers. He gleefully thought of all the house points he’d be graciously gifting to Gryffindor—he’d give Dumbledore a run for his galleons! Maybe he’d even volunteer to help train the Quidditch team? Training wouldn’t hurt—Merlin knew he’d have to keep up his Auror endurance, and this would prove quite difficult what with a kitchen full of House Elves who worshipped him.

“Stop fussing—you look great!” said his mirror, encouragingly. 

Feeling chipper, Harry practically whistled as he made his way to Hermione’s room, lesson plan drafts in hand. He even remembered to stop and pick up the book she’d chucked at him— _Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle._ She had been completely engrossed in the book when he found her this morning—how interesting could it possibly be?

As he climbed her spiral staircase, he was half afraid he would be thrown off with a similar ward to the girls’ dormitories in Gryffindor tower, but alas Professors seemed to be given more liberties. He knocked on her door and patiently waited to be let in. 

“Door’s open!” he heard a muffled yell from within.

He let himself in to find a room very similar to his own; large four-poster, cozy sitting area, a writing area, and Merlin’s thumbs—did she get a balcony?

Bloody McGonagall!

“I’ve got your book,” Harry said, throwing it onto her bed.

“What’s that look on your face?” Hermione asked distractedly as she ran past him, wrapped snuggly in a towel. Her hair was done up in a neat bun, and a glance into the open door of her bathroom was enough to realize she’d been in there taming it with a bottle of Sleakeazy’s. 

“Oh, I was just fuming at the fact that you get a balcony and I don’t. Care to trade rooms?”

“I’ll pass,” Hermione replied, disappearing behind a black partition decorated with an image of a satyr and dancing nymphs. “Hand me that dress on my bed, will you? I’m bloody running late! I’m supposed to be meeting with Minerva.”

Harry dutifully reached over and passed her the dress which she took, only to replace with her towel. “Would you mind throwing that into my bathroom please?” 

Harry obediently took the towel to her bathroom, stopping to admire the ordered mess of Hermione’s morning routine. “WHAT? You also get a claw-foot bathtub?” Harry yelled.

She stepped out from behind the partition and glared at him as he re-entered her room. “Do not start with me right now Harry Potter or I swear you will have nothing but Expelliarmus to rely on.”

“Not like I didn’t defeat the Dark Lord with that spell,” Harry said, grinning.

“Oh, do shut up and help me with this zipper,” she asked, turning around and pointing to her dress, which was still undone. He could see the top of her white lace knickers and matching bra peeking out. 

The dress itself was a deep navy blue, conservative in that it was high collared, long-sleeved, and ran down slightly past her knees, but was fitted so perfectly against her that it looked like a second skin. There was a jaunty little ribbon to the side along the collar. 

“Listen luv, are you trying to cultivate a mob of enamored teenagers?” he asked as he finished zipping her up. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“That dress.” He watched, with mild amusement, as she ungraciously slipped on some sheer stockings and a pair of demure black heels. 

“What of it?” Hermione looked up at him from where she was still trying to straighten her stockings.

“It’s…” Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint the word he wanted to use. 

Hermione sighed in exasperation. “It’s a high-collared long-sleeved pencil dress! You’ve seen me wear this a hundred times!” 

Had he? He didn’t think he had, but then again, he was often around Hermione surrounded by a cacophony of friends where ample food and ale were present—hardly conducive to really noticing what anyone was wearing. This was also the first time he was considering this from the lens of her potential effect on his students—otherwise known as the hormonal teenage populace of Hogwarts. 

“Listen, Hermione, I was sixteen once. All I’m saying is that—”

“What, had Madame Pince worn this you would have been wanking to thoughts of her every night?”

Harry laughed. “I mean I’m sure she would have looked great in it, but there’s a world of difference in terms of how fanciable you are versus Madame Pince.” 

“Harry, yes you were sixteen once, and you knew me at sixteen. You’ve seen me in all manner of dress and undress and you weren’t running around wanking everywhere were you?”

“No, but—” 

“Then I’m sure the students will be fine. Besides, who would fancy the overbearing shrew librarian that constantly shushes everyone?” she said with a smirk. “Now stop worrying about my attire and show me your dismal lessons.”

*~*~*

Harry’s first day as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor flew by in a whirlwind. He hadn’t yet taught any first years, but the second through fourth years he’d had were a great barometer as to where everyone currently was in their proficiency. The lack of structure and revolving door of Defense professors was indeed an issue, as it had been when he was still at school, but in the last year, Angelina had at least brought some structure to the coursework. Her curriculum was similar to Lupin’s in that she focused on practical defense, but was severely lacking in combat defense, which was Harry’s strength and what he would focus on this term.

It was now close to dinnertime and he thought he’d find Hermione so they could go together. 

When he entered the library, it was practically empty, it being late and barely the first day of studies. He smirked, however, at the sight of a table full of sixth- and seventh-year boys. They were definitely there studying, though it wasn’t their textbooks, which remained closed, littering their table. Instead, their focused little eyes were trained on one Hermione Granger, who was standing on a ladder perusing a shelf that, to what Harry knew from memory, was devoted to tomes regarding Lycanthropy. He’d spent more than enough time in those stacks when Snape made them write that ridiculous essay during his third year. 

Her hair was slowly falling loose from her bun in little curls around the nape of her neck, and her elevated perch atop the ladder provided a prime view of her shapely legs, and to Harry’s dismay—the clearly outlined shape of her bum through the delicate fabric of the dress. 

_These idiots were lustily staring at her bum!_

“Good evening gentleman,” Harry said sternly as he pounced upon the table of hormonal teens. “What subject are we studying tonight? Is there something I can help you with?” He gleamed with pleasure at the way each boy’s face began turning into various shades of puce.

"No, Mr. Harry Potter, _Sir_ , we were just leaving,” gulped a sandy-haired Hufflepuff. 

“Yes, it’s almost dinner time,” piped up a brunette Ravenclaw. “We should leave. _Now_.” 

The boys wasted no time in gathering their belongings and rushing out of there. Hermione, oblivious to the entire exchange, was now leaning against the bookshelf engrossed in a tome. Harry walked over to her. 

“You missed lunch at the Longbottoms,” he said, startling her to the point where she lost balance and landed right into his arms with a shriek. 

“Are you mad, Harry?! Don’t sneak up on a person when they’re on a ladder,” she chided, eyes glaring.

“Caught you, didn’t I, my little Snitch?” he grinned. 

She rolled her eyes. “You can put me down now.” 

He gently dropped her back onto her feet, surprised at how much shorter she seemed, even with the heels. 

"Did you shrink or something?” he asked quizzically. 

She looked up at him, brown eyes twinkling. “No, you jerk, I’m still the same height I’ve always been. You just finally finished growing into your full six feet.” 

“How tall are you, exactly?” he asked, surprised he didn’t already know this about his best mate. Ron was 6'2. He knew this because Ron _always_ brought it up. 

"5'3. 5'5 in these,” she said pointing at her shoes. 

“You’re tiny.”

“And you’re exasperating. How was lunch with the Longbottoms?” she asked. She flicked her wand at various books that littered the tables around the room, banishing them to their rightful place as she walked back toward her desk. 

Harry followed. “Lovely. They missed you. You could have sent a fire message or a Patronus.” 

Hermione began to gather her belongings in a bag. “I know and I’ll apologize—I just got so distracted with my dissertation! I found the perfect resource and I’ve been reading all day and making notes—it’s just what I needed to get me started. I don’t think I’ve gotten the chance to tell you what I am focusing on at all,” she said beaming. 

“It’s about Lycanthropy,” Harry said, pointing at the shelf where the ladder was still propped up. 

Hermione grinned. “You’re absolutely right, well recalled Harry—” the rest of her sentence was interrupted by the loud grumbling of her stomach. 

“Did you even eat lunch today?” Harry asked with a flash of annoyance. 

“Er…I think Winky may have brought me some tea and crumpets at one point in the afternoon,” she said sheepishly. “Though I honestly don’t remember whether I finished it.”

That did it. Harry clasped his hand in hers and pulled her toward the hallway. “Tell me all about your dissertation in the Great Hall later, and after dinner.” 

*~*~*

It was thus how Harry found himself once again in bed with Hermione pressed against him. She was sitting up with Harry’s head on her bosom, where he was enjoying having his head scratched while listening to her re-explain her thesis. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Harry asked trying to make sense of the dissertation Hermione had spent a better part of the evening describing. “You’re arguing that the marginalization and mistreatment of werewolves in public society has a quantifiable negative impact on Wizarding Britain’s economy and public safety, and outlining a three-pronged plan to socialize the Wolfsbane potion?” It wouldn’t be half as difficult to wrap his mind around it if she weren’t slowly lulling him into a comfortable stupor with her gifted hands.

“Yes, if we socialized the potion and made it more broadly available to the Lycanthrope populace, we would be able to integrate werewolves more fully into society,” Hermione recited vehemently. “The Remus Lupins of the world, good, kind-hearted people who were placed into this circumstance without their consent, would no longer needlessly suffer the stigma of their condition. Once I pen this, I plan to work for the DRCMC, reopen the Werewolf Support office, and begin to lobby for full implementation.” Hermione said this with the air of someone completely confident in their ability to force something into existence through sheer will. Harry trusted that if anyone could tackle this controversial issue and succeed, it was her. He could clearly hear the furor in her voice, and his heart ached. If only Remus were around to help her with this and see it come to fruition. 

“You’re amazing, Hermione,” Harry sighed gratefully. 

She chuckled. “You’re only saying that because I’m scratching your head.”

“I mean, obviously,” Harry said with a grin. After a quiet moment, he sat up, clutching her hand in his and squeezing it tightly. “I’m being serious, though. However, I can help, let me know. You’ll have the full support of the DMLE.” 

Hermione smiled. “I know I will, Head Auror Potter. I was already counting on it. Now let’s go to sleep. Let me put my feet between your calves again.” 

Harry groaned, pulling the covers over his head in defeat. “Fine, but you have to promise not to miss post-dinner brandy at Hagrid’s tomorrow.” 

*~*~*


	2. The Book

A month into term and Harry had finally settled into his routine. 

He would wake up early every morning for a run around the lake. Two of the days he was joined by the Gryffindor Quidditch team, now being captained by an intense boy named Jagger Robins, who jumped at the chance to have Harry as a faculty advisor. Neville, as Head of House, approved the idea enthusiastically. “We’ll win the cup again this year, eh Harry?” he would suggest cheerfully at mealtimes in the Great Hall. 

Every other morning, Hermione would join him on his runs. “Merlin’s teeth Harry, how can you do this every day? I feel like my spleen is about to fall out,” she would complain around the third mile. 

Harry would grin, running backward but still keeping a steady pace ahead of her. “Physical training wasn’t something that used to be required to be an Auror, but when it dawned on me that I won the Elder Wand with sheer brute force, I knew I had to commit.” 

“Bloody show off.” 

After their run, they would dash off to their respective rooms (Harry would sometimes have to carry her, complaining all the while that it defeated the whole purpose of her run), and shower. Then they’d grab a quick breakfast either in their common room, or in the Great Hall if the mood suited them, and then they’d be off to their respective posts for the day—Harry in his classroom or office, Hermione in the library. Sometimes Harry would notice her absence in the Great Hall and bring her lunch to the library where he’d force her to take a break, and they’d gossip about the other professors, or she’d use him as a sounding board to work through an idea. Sometimes they would lunch with Neville and Hannah who loved receiving them in their quarters. 

Some evenings, when Harry needed to escape the portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart that somehow still hung in the Defense professor’s designated office, he would gather any parchments that needed revision from his desk, and wander off toward the library so that he and Hermione could work together in companionable silence (after he shooed away the ever-growing table of boys who’d become a permanent fixture). 

“Let them study,” Hermione would chide him with a grin, though she never made a motion to stop him. He knew she secretly loved having the entire library to herself.

“If they were studying their material, I’d leave them alone just fine,” Harry replied with a small scowl. 

“They _are_ studying their material! Harry— _nobody_ is looking at me.” 

Harry chortled. Today she was wearing a light grey cap-sleeve dress that hit just above the knee, with a thick black belt accentuating her ridiculously tapered waist. Her hair was up in a messy bun, held in place by her wand. Long silver pendant earrings highlighted her long, blemish-free neck. 

_Of course_ , everyone was looking at her. 

“Hermione, you’re the epitome of every young male’s naughty librarian fantasy,” he responded.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hermione sighed, though a slight blush tinged her cheeks. 

“It’s just that, all of your dresses and skirts, they’re –” 

“What? Professional?” Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Conservative? Acceptable for a workplace environment? Not in the slightest bit revealing or tawdry?” 

Harry pulled at the tie he was wearing. “Er…uh…I mean… _define tawdry_?” 

Hermione reached for the closest book and threw it at him. “Harry Potter you have seen me in this dress a million times and you’ve never once stopped to tell me I looked _tawdry_.” 

“Ok, fine, you don’t look _tawdry_!” Harry replied, afraid that she’d transfigure him into something unpleasant. Besides, she had a point—it wasn’t so much that she looked _tawdry_ , it was the _tawdry_ things these teenage boys were thinking about when they looked at her. It wasn’t bloody her fault. She wasn’t controlling their minds or thoughts (though _she_ _could)_. He was just being a blithering idiot—irrationally so. He couldn’t quite put into words why this bothered him so much—perhaps it was because the boys were so young, and he didn’t like the thought of any student being disrespectful, _or thinking about being disrespectful_ , with Hermione. 

After a long moment of silence, where he could practically feel Hermione quietly fuming beside him, he decided he couldn’t take it any longer. “Ok…well…I am heading up to bed. Walk with me?” Harry asked, though he already knew what her answer would be. 

“No thank you, I’m going to stay here and look over my introduction one final time,” she responded icily. 

Harry sighed. He hated when Hermione was mad at him. “Well, if you need me, you know where I’ll be.” He haphazardly shoved a bunch of parchment and books into his bag and bolted out of the library. 

*~*~*

Harry was pacing around his room, cursing himself. 

He was a bloody arse and should apologize. 

He’d about decided he was going to. 

_Tomorrow_. 

Tomorrow morning, he would knock on her door and help her pick out the _tawdriest_ dress in her wardrobe to wear for the day. 

Ok, maybe not _that_.

But having Hermione mad at him made him uneasy, and he couldn’t for the life of him relax himself enough to go to sleep. He knew if he didn’t get to bed soon, he’d regret it. He had double Defense first thing—with Slytherin. 

Dreadful. 

He looked through his rucksack to find something dull to bore him to sleep…he could do more revisions? Maybe he could focus on a particular dull chapter of _Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts_. 

And then he found it, nestled between his school books and papers.

 _Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle_

Harry wondered how it had gotten into his bag—he probably accidentally shoved it in when he practically fled the library and Hermione’s quiet fury. 

Whatever the cause, he was glad to have found it. It’s exactly the dry, boring, dribble that could lull him to sleep immediately.

Harry nestled himself comfortably into his bed, dimming all of the lights except for the lamp at his bedside. He opened the book up to a random chapter and began to read – 

*~*~*

_Grizelda shivered as she watched him from behind the protective barrier of her book. She couldn’t believe he’d entered her store._

_Hers._

_Her bookstore – out of all the book merchants in town, he’d chosen this one._

_The Prince gazed imperiously at the stacks of books before him, a tall, commanding figure in green, which only brought out his eyes—the shades of a deep and mystifying forest. His thick hair as black as the darkest night. She watched him pace from row to row, noticing the muscles clench in his thick, muscular thighs. His trousers were immodestly tight—even looking at him brought a blush to her cheek._

_“Lass, is there a man running this establishment that could help me procure a book?”_

_Grizelda flinched. Everyone assumed her father continued to run this book shop, but he’d fallen ill months ago, and she’d kept it running ever since. She knew she couldn’t let a soul find out, particularly not to the Prince—after all, women owning or running businesses was strictly forbidden._

_“Your Grace,” she said, biting her lip at the cold steel in his eyes, the total disregard of a nobleman toward anyone below their station. “My father is the proprietor of this shop, but is currently away on business—if you leave the details of what you are searching for with me, I promise I will get him the message and we’ll take care of your needs promptly.”_

_He finally trained his gaze on her, as if realizing she was in the same room for the first time. Of course, she naturally had that effect on people—it’s what made her so good at her job. She was plain, discreet—her brown hair and simple gowns in muted tones meant that she could blend into the rows of books, and ensured that customers would keep their focus on a purchase. She’d only be summoned if her assistance was required._

_The Prince stalked toward her. “Lass…the details of the book I seek are hardly appropriate for the ears of such a sweet and humble maiden as yourself,” he remarked with a suddenly sinful smirk. He was standing right before her—she could feel the heat emanating from his body, like a siren song calling to her. He reached out and tucked an errant curl behind her ear._

_Grizelda blushed, the color blooming on her cheeks before extending down to her heaving bosom. “You’d be surprised by what a maid such as myself is exposed to within the confines of this shop, Your Grace.”_

_The Prince raised an eyebrow, the cold steel of his eyes now molten dark. “You think you could help me procure this tome?”_

_Grizelda nodded. “I will do whatever pleases you, Your Grace.” Before she could stop herself, she dropped her gaze down to his trousers, lashes fanning against her cheeks, eyes widening at the outlined girth of what she was sure was a devastatingly enormous cock._

_The Prince’s eyes flashed as he reached a hand to her chin to pull her gaze back to him. “You will look at me while I take you, Lass.”_

_And then The Prince threw Grizelda onto the nearest table and ripped her bodice open with his strong, bare hands._

_Grizelda couldn’t believe what was happening. She never, in her wildest fantasies, would’ve assumed The Prince could ever look twice at her. She is no way compared to the glittering confections of the court that routinely adorned his arms during festivals._

_His Grace bent down and took her now exposed breast into the warm, wet, cocoon of his mouth. Grizelda gasped—she’d never felt a sensation more exquisite! Grizelda clutched at The Prince’s neck, pulling him closer, arching into his mouth, begging for more. She knew this was wrong, she knew that her maidenhead was expected to remain intact until marriage, but she’d never felt so wanton, and she knew she wanted nothing more than for The Prince to ravage her completely._

*~*~*

Harry tore himself away from the book.

_Bloody hell._

_Merlin’s sodding balls._

Hermione…Hermione was reading a naughty novel? 

_A bodice-ripper?_

Harry ran his hands threw his hair. He turned to look at the cover once more. 

_Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle._

Not only was Hermione reading this… _tawdry_ work of literature, but she had transfigured the cover to keep it a secret—a plain, nondescript leather-bound volume like the millions of others sitting in the Hogwarts library. 

Preferably in the _Restricted Section._

Harry jumped out of bed and began pacing again. 

He was shocked.

Shocked! 

How could…never in his dizziest daydreams could he have guessed that Hermione would be into reading these kinds of novels! Prim and proper Hermione, bookworm Hermione, career-witch Hermione; ink stains on her hands, sharp tongue, no-nonsense attitude…wearing her smart little dresses…never without a book in her hand…

Harry stared down at the book again. 

It’s not like he thought _less_ of her for it. 

Of course not! Everyone had their _tastes_. But it was just—it was mind-boggling! 

And to think he’d sat with her in the same room as she read this…she’d fallen asleep on the train with _this_ book in her hand! He’d found her at breakfast multiple times, eyes-glued to the pages as she delicately nibbled on toast. She clearly took breaks at the library to read it…she kept it constantly at hand…

And did she…did she ever read it when she was alone? Alone in her room?

Alone in bed? 

After a long night of working, with a glass of elvish wine?

Or maybe in her bathtub?

Perhaps she lit scented candles, drew herself a steamy bubble bath, soapy wet and warm, and allowed herself to slip away into the world of Grizelda and her dark-haired Prince… 

Harry’s mind raced.

Did Hermione…did she… _pleasure_ herself to this book? Is that what this was? 

Did she lie in bed and picture the scenes of this book as she tucked her hand beneath the oversized shirts she loved to wear to sleep, and… 

Harry’s could feel his heart beating erratically in his chest.

WHAT WAS WRONG WITH HIM. 

He couldn’t be thinking of Hermione in _that_ scenario, it was WRONG. 

JUST WRONG.

THEY WERE BEST FRIENDS.

She was LIKE RON.

Yes…Ron…

 _Think of Ron,_ he told himself.

It’s not like he sat around having a minor panic attack when he discovered Ron’s stack of Playwizards. In fact, he’d nicked a few copies for himself. 

How was this any different? In fact, it was much tamer. 

Harry forced himself to calm down, taking deep breaths as he continued pacing. 

_This was no different._

And as a good friend—the best of best mates—the proper thing to do would be to return this book to her and pretend he was none the wiser. 

Yes, he’d just sneak into her room, and leave it somewhere. 

She never needed to know that _he knew_ her dirty little secret. If he ever saw her reading it, he would feign ignorance and remain completely rational.

He could do this. 

And it was with this mission in mind that Harry pulled out his faithful Invisibility Cloak and sought Hermione’s rooms. 

*~*~*

_Thank goodness for wordless magic_ Harry thought to himself as he silently Alohamora’d his way into Hermione’s room, crouched low beneath his cloak, book in hand.

The lights were on, but Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

Harry paused. It was already late. He had left the library late to begin with, and then with all the reading, and pacing, and existential crisis….it was even later. 

Hermione should be asleep. 

Was she…out somewhere? Was she sleeping somewhere else?

Harry was unexpectedly hit with a stab of annoyance. The least she could do was let him know that she would be out late…it was merely a common courtesy so that he wouldn’t wander in here, not find her, and worry…

Sod the fact that she was an adult woman and an exceptionally powerful witch who helped him defeat the Dark Lord.

Harry abruptly realized her bathroom door was ajar, the light inside clearly on.

Oh, maybe she was just in the bathroom?

Suddenly, he heard a pained, muffled noise emanate from the open door. Harry tiptoed over—what if she had hurt herself in there? He remembered reading somewhere that over 70 people die in domestic accidents a week… 

The muffled sound repeated itself, followed closely by a whimper. Harry peered inside, now indeed concerned. 

The bathroom appeared to be empty…that was until Harry noticed the curly, brown bun of hair peeking out from the edge of the oversized, claw-foot tub that took over half the room. A delicate little toe was toying with the faucet at the other end. 

_She was taking a bath._

The room smelled like vanilla. Hermione propped her other foot up on the edge of the tub, water and soap dripping from her now exposed leg. Harry’s cheeks colored, embarrassed to be intruding on such an intimate moment. Harry was about to turn away and leave her be when he heard that quiet whimper again.

And again.

No…now it was more like a _moan_. 

He was gradually clued into a gentle lap, lap, lapping of the water…

She suddenly arched up, and Harry caught a glimpse of the side of a bare, wet breast, her lips puckered into an O. He oddly thought of Grizelda, arching into the Prince. 

_Oh._

Harry’s cheeks reddened even further, his body growing even hotter than the temperature of the warm bathroom. 

_Merlin’s worthless ghost._

Hermione was…she was…

“Oh,” Hermione sighed, a high-pitched sound that made Harry’s breath shallow. 

_I’ve got to get out of here,_ Harry thought desperately. He finally managed to calm himself enough to turn away when suddenly…

“Oh… _oh Harry_ ,” she breathed out a last heaving gasp before sinking into the tub, her left hand gripping the side fiercely.

Harry nearly dropped the book as he jumped away from the bathroom door. 

Forgetting to leave the book behind, Harry dashed out of her rooms as quietly as he could. 

*~*~*

_“Oh…oh Harry.”_

Harry slapped himself in the face. _Focus_ , he told himself. _You’ve barely reached mile 5._

He was doing his usual morning run, silently screaming thanks to the gods that Hermione hadn’t joined him. She was probably still mad at him, not that she’d be joining him at such an early hour anyway. 

He’d already been up for ages; he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. 

Hagrid, who usually awoke at the crack of dawn—or rather, with the cries of his loud and hungry rooster—had been surprised to find Harry already outside his hut, manually chopping wood. 

“Aren’t ye a ruddy wizard?” Hagrid had asked him grumpily upon discovering the source of the racket that woke up. “You’ll catch your death of cold wearing that.”

The temperature, so early in the morning, was practically frigid, but Harry seemed none the wiser in his running shorts and Puddlemere United tee—a birthday gift from Hermione. In fact, Harry felt the opposite—his skin was oppressively hot, and he feared it would melt off his bones completely at any moment.

_“Oh…oh Harry.”_

Harry had merely grunted at Hagrid in reply. He couldn’t think past the rolling thunder of anxious and confusing thoughts roaring away in his mind, that had kept him frantically pacing his room all night, and had finally brought him out, while it was still dark, to MANUALLY CHOP WOOD.

_“Oh…oh Harry.”_

_Mile 6._ Harry wondered if he would ever tire of this manic energy and if it would ever dissipate. For starters, why was he so worked up about this? There could be one of many completely logical explanations for what he had encountered last night, for the way Hermione gripped the side of her tub and arched her back as she sighed his name into the air with shuddering breaths... 

Harry slapped himself again.

It was time to consider his options again for the umpteenth time—perhaps he’d missed something. 

Option #1: He had misheard her.

A reasonable assumption. Maybe she had meant to say “airy,” like the room was airy. Or maybe the steam from the bath was too hot, and she had needed air? Needed something airier? Yes…definitely an option to consider. 

Option #2: She knew some other Harry.

Accepting the possibility that she was indeed pronouncing the name Harry as she…as she…

Harry slapped himself again.

As she… _enjoyed her own company_ in the bathtub, that did not necessitate that the Harry in question was in fact himself. Harry was a rather common name—maybe she knew some other Harry from the Institute? Yes…maybe it was her classmate? Some sad sack worthless sod who didn’t deserve her, clearly, otherwise he’d be there…er… _enjoying her company_ so that she didn’t have to _enjoy her own company_ all by herself. Yes—that other Harry was a bloody idiot and he would murder him if he ever materialized.

Or maybe she was fantasizing about the Prince of England? He was all over the Muggle news having just joined the army or some nonsense…and she did seem to have a thing for Princes, right? Judging by her taste in books. The Prince in her book, with his hair blacker than the darkest night, and green eyes like a deep forest… 

Harry nearly tripped all over himself. 

He kicked a rock into the lake in frustration. How in Hades’ fiery hell was he supposed to figure this out? 

The Giant Squid, quite presciently, retaliated by hurling a wave of cold lake water right at Harry, effectively drenching his inner blaze. 

_Touché_. 

*~*~*

When Harry finally arrived back at his common room (he made it to 7 miles), Hermione was already sitting out for breakfast, long bare legs stretched out before her. Harry tried his hardest to quell the flash of seeing them wet and soapy. She had a book in her hand. 

_Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs, Volume II_ by _Hadrian Whittle._

_Volume II._

THERE WERE MULTIPLE VOLUMES NOW?!!

Harry could feel his temperature rising even though he was still soaked to the bone. 

She looked up at him, the flash of yesterday’s anger quickly melting into a look of concern as she took in his state.

“Goodness, oh Harry are you all right?” Hermione jumped up from her perch on the couch and approached him, wand in hand. “Did you fall into the Lake?” she asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

_Oh, Harry._

How was he supposed to respond or form words or even concentrate with her saying his name like that? 

As she stepped closer to him, Harry was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of vanilla. A dull ache began to form in the backs of thighs, and he feared it had _nothing_ to do with his grueling workout. 

“Here, let me dry you,” Hermione gripped his forearm, practically scorching him with her touch, the smell of vanilla making him dizzy. 

He had to leave this place. _Now_. 

“Don’t worry Hermione, I’m about to run up and hop in the shower anyway. S’all good! Just the Squid being in a mood! No harm done,” Harry virtually shouted as he ran away and raced up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him and sealing it with a spell. 

_What am I going to do?_

*~*~*

Three days later and he was still no closer to finding a solution. He’d all but ignored Hermione during this time, catching only glimpses of her in the morning as he dashed off to classes, nearly dying at the sight of her smart little dresses—a deep green wrap dress that made her look like a present, an obscenely short, plum-colored A-line dress with big gold buttons, a skintight black sweater dress with a loose neckline that drew an indecent amount of attention to her collarbones…

He could barely look at her. 

He’d stopped sitting near her in the Great Hall during lunch, or meeting her in the library. One morning she did wake up to meet him for a morning run, looking all snuggle-y in a University of Oxford jumper and leggings. Luckily for him, it was a morning they were training with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, so he spent the entire time distracting himself by being a tyrant and barking out the most insane orders.

“What do you mean 3 more laps?” he heard the team complain. 

But it was never enough. He was putting his body through the most grueling routine—waking up even earlier, chopping wood, 500 crunches, supersets of squats, jump squats, lunges, and push-ups before his 7-mile run. His body was sore, he needed a break, but nothing seemed to burn-off his manic energy, nor quiet his mind. He couldn’t sleep. He was completely consumed by thoughts of Hermione. Of Hermione in the tub, soapy wet and warm, whimpering his name… _and he did not know how to deal._

To start, how should he go about broaching the subject? How was he ever going to find out if this was about him, or some other Harry, or the Prince of England, if he didn’t broach the subject, to begin with? How was he supposed to do it? Just casually over breakfast one morning? “Oh hey, Hermione, so…heard you moaning my name while you wanked, pass the scones please.” 

She would bloody hex his eyeballs out!

He had to find a way to approach this subject in a more finessed way. Preferably in a way where he wasn’t in the same room as her and her wand arm. 

“Horace, what am I supposed to do?” Harry turned to the austere owl, perched on a stand by the window. The usually flippant _hoot_ in response was interrupted by Hermione. 

“Harry?”

Harry looked up from where he was sitting on a bench in his alcove. Hermione was in his doorway, already dressed for bed in an oversize Holyhead Harpies tee. A gift from Ginny. 

“Harry, can we talk?” Hermione crept gingerly onto his bed and patted for him to join her.

_Bugger._

Harry closed his eyes and took three deep, calming breaths. _He could do this._

He walked over and sat down on his bed, keeping himself sitting straight and as far away from her as he could.

“What is it, Hermione?” he was afraid to look at her, afraid to see how the shirt bunched up around her thighs to the point where her knickers peaked out. Afraid to look at her hands, where they sat delicately on his comforter—those hands that she pressed between her legs in pleasure, moaning his name…

It was enough to make him foolish.

“Harry—look at me—are you really that mad at me?” Harry finally managed the courage to look up at her. Her eyes looked pained, confused…

_Blimey._

“I know that I was… _frosty_ the other night in the library, but I’m over it and I’ve _been_ over it. You don’t have to ignore me, or give me the silent treatment if that’s what you’ve been doing…” she looked hurt.

Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t want Hermione to be hurt. That’s the last thing he wanted. “No, Hermione, please stop, I’m not mad. I’m not ignoring you.” 

_Liar_. 

Hermione looked at him, brow furrowed, biting her lower lip. “You haven’t spoken two words to me in days. You won’t even look at me.” 

At that very moment, Harry was, in fact, trying desperately to not look at the way she was biting her lower lip. It was excruciating. “Hermione it’s not that, it’s…”

_What?_

_Think Potter._ _What is it? What can be the cause of your distance?_

Harry took off his glasses and ran a hand over his eyes, “I’m just…I’m just knackered.” That wasn’t a lie, technically? He had been getting absolutely no sleep at all. “You know how I get when I’m not sleeping well…I figured I’d just save you the hassle of having to deal with me.” 

He put his glasses back on and chanced a look at her. He could see her visibly melting into her concern.

_Oh no._

Nope, no, this was the wrong tack.

_Abort. Abort Mission._

“Oh Harry,” she sighed and immediately jumped into action, drawing down the comforter, and climbing in, pulling Harry along beside her. Before he knew it, his head was resting on her bosom, and she was slowly scratching his head. 

_His favorite thing._

_Now his own worst personal hell._

“Don’t worry, this will lull you to sleep in no time,” she cooed softly against his ear, causing him a slight tremor.

He was stuck, and he knew it. If he jumped out and acted weird, she would notice immediately—she already noticed that he’d been slinking around avoiding her, and had called him out on it. 

No…if he overreacted right now, she would figure out something was amiss and drag it out of him…

And then she’d hex his bollocks off. 

But if he stayed here, cheek pressed against her breast, the smell of vanilla overwhelming his senses, he would _die_. 

_Just die._

He would cease to exist if he didn’t turn completely to nuzzle her breast…if he didn’t work his way slowly to her maddeningly desirable neck and inhale…he wanted to know what she smelled like there, what she tasted like. How differently she tasted like in different places. He wanted to take her artful little hands, the hands that were skillfully scratching his head, that she had expertly maneuvered against herself to pleasure, and place them everywhere on his body. He wanted to kiss them, inhale them, guide them. He wanted to explore all the crevices of her body they’d explored. 

How was he going to survive another second of being pressed up against her without touching, tasting, biting and consuming her completely? 

Mercifully, the torture ended. 

But it also continued.

Hermione took off Harry’s glasses and wandlessly turned off the lights, shifting positions. She landed on her favorite—head on Harry’s bare chest, one soft hand placed delicately against his skin, feet between his calves. She sighed contentedly. 

This was a precarious position for Harry.

He’d slept with her like this more times than he could think of. It started innocently enough, keeping each other warm in a cold tent in the Forest of Dean. It was never something they’d made a fuss about at all—it was pragmatic. Necessary. Best mates comforting each other during a war. Once they’d established this habit, it was never a concern. If Hermione came round to Harry’s during one of her visits from Dublin, and couldn’t trust herself to Apparte home after too much ale, she’d find one of Harry’s shirts and climb into his bed and that was that. There was never any awkwardness at all. 

Until now, that is. 

Harry was acutely aware that one slight movement from Hermione, one graze of her leg or a change of position of her arm, and she would _feel_ the problem this was now causing. 

Taking deep breaths wasn’t helping, all he could smell was Hermione. Vanilla and parchment and ink. A part of him was even enjoying the torment, the warm hand on his chest. 

_Her hand._

Her hand pressed between her legs, moaning his name. 

_Sod it_ , Harry thought and he went full blast masochistic. She was very heavy in his arms, her breathing steady. He took a chance and pressed his nose against her hair, inhaling like an addict. Merlin, he wanted her. He wanted everything about her, and he didn’t know how to make it happen, or if it even was a possibility.

He thought of the potential Other Harry and felt murderous. 

He needed to come up with a game plan that would get her to open up that part of herself to him. 

*~*~*

Harry awoke the next morning, at the crack of dawn, to put himself through his exercise paces once more. 

He’d slept fitfully, afraid of how his body would react to Hermione. She had in the past observed his… _morning situations_ …and politely ignored them, but something about this now felt wrong to him. Before, it was just something natural, a part of being a bloke. Now, it was directly caused by her proximity, her skin, her smell. Without knowing how she felt, or if this feeling was in any way reciprocated, having her so close made him feel like he was somehow taking advantage. 

She was still asleep when he left and was still asleep when he came back, out of breath but still electric. Cruelly, she’d kicked off the blankets; Harry caught a glimpse of her long bare legs. Her shirt had ridden up to her waist exposing white lacy knickers, her exquisite, curvy bum. A devious, appalling creature within him wanted to press his face and sink his teeth right into her…

Harry considered running back outside and diving into the lake to do laps—perhaps _that’s_ what he needed to get some peace. 

Or not. 

Succumbing to defeat, Harry knew what he had to do. He couldn’t go on like this, and he couldn’t fight it anymore. 

He marched into his bathroom, sealing the door shut with a spell. No way would she accidentally be stumbling in to witness what he was about to do. 

He turned on the shower and stripped off his clothes, aching all over, not because of his recent exertions, but at the thought that she was a wall away, half-clothed herself. What he wouldn’t give to slip into bed with her, or have her slip into the bathroom…

To slip inside her. 

He stepped into the shower and let his mind play with the fantasy. She would slip in here with him, already naked. She’d been thinking about it all night, wanting him all night. She was finally taking her chance. And Harry would let her. He would relish in being wanted, delight in the way she would beg him, use his own hands to tease her mercilessly, the way she did to herself, bringing her closer and closer to fulfillment but then pulling back… _needing_ to hear her plead, his name a supplication on her sweet sweet lips… 

“Oh, _Harry_ …Harry please…” 

Harry took his erection in hand and rubbed and tugged, picturing Hermione’s body against his, picturing himself pushing her against the shower walls, her hands on the tile, her warm wet skin slipping through his fingers…the way he would tug on her hair and she would arch herself against him, pulling him in deeper and deeper until he thought he’d go blind with how good it felt—how good _she_ felt. 

He didn’t stop until he came all over his hand, the spurts blending in with the warm shower water. 

*~*~*

Harry exited the bathroom feeling slightly calmer, peppier even, then he had in days. 

He was determined to not disturb Hermione's slumber, but nevertheless, he found out that she was awake. A part of him felt like he got caught — like she had witnessed what had just occurred in his bathroom — though he knew that wasn’t the case. She was still sitting on the edge of his bed, all legs and bushy hair, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She blinked them wide open.

And in that one moment.

With that one, single, scorching look.

All of his pleasant feelings of tingly calm were gone. 

He was instantly—acutely—aware that he had tiptoed of out his bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. 

And so was Hermione. 

Perhaps it was because she was still half-asleep, guard-down, impressionable…the hazy fog of dreams still clouding her mind…

But he knew he’d _never_ seen _that_ look on Hermione’s face. 

She cornered him, pinned him to the spot, with a gaze of pure, unadulterated appreciation. Equal parts languid, ruthless indolence, and fiery, desperate longing. She was wordlessly begging, pleading—the look conveyed the breathless moan he kept hearing over and over in his mind, the urgent sounds that had brought him to completion in his fantasy just moments ago. 

With just one look from her, his inner peace was gone. 

The look was a flash, an infinitesimal, never-ending, _eternal_ , microsecond that was over before it even began. 

Hemione blinked again. No sign of smoldering hunger. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes averted, but Harry noted the way she forcefully bit her lower lip, knees suddenly pressed together. It was just as gutting—and exhilarating—as hearing her whimper. 

“Hermione, you’re up?” Harry said distractedly, turning his body away from her _immediately_ and grabbing his dressing robe from off the floor to cover himself. So much for a refractory period. “I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep.”

Hermione flushed again. He’d caught her unawares. He wondered how often she had to fight to keep that look off of her face, that look that threatened to bring him to his knees.

He _needed_ to see it again. 

“Yes, I was…I should be going now. I should let you change.” She chanced one last look at him, her teeth still digging fiercely into her bottom lip before she ran out of the room as if she were fleeing a Hungarian Horntail. 

*~*~*


	3. The Spark

Harry sighed as he threw a stack of parchment onto the coffee table in their common room. He’d spent the last hour trying to distract himself by doing revisions, all to no avail.

Hermione was ignoring him.

It was like a complete role reversal. He’d spent days trying to stay away from her, unsure of how to think or act around her after the… _bathtub incident_. But now, three days after she’d woken up in Harry’s bed and seared him with a look, she’d practically made herself a phantom. Harry would catch vague glimpses of her, in her smart dresses, as she fled any room he happened to enter. Their common room, the Great Hall—he even managed to chase her out of the library. 

Her. 

_The Librarian._

Harry took a deep breath and was instantly assailed by the lingering scent of vanilla. He was haunted by her phantom. Harry couldn’t get her eyes out of his head, that molten heart burning through, filling them with such longing it made him ache all over. 

Harry was used to women looking at him as if he were an object to be possessed. He was famous, powerful. He’d spent years learning, training, and had become a very accomplished wizard in his own right. He had a successful career, influence within the Ministry. He had finally grown into himself and his confidence, come into his looks—invested in an adequate wardrobe. Most women observed all these trappings and looked at Harry like a prize, an accessory—something they could wear and flaunt like a flashy handbag. That’s not how Harry wanted to be wanted.

Hermione had looked at him like she wanted to consume him—possession wasn’t enough. He’d gotten the distinct impression that, had Hermione remained in her sleepy trance one moment longer, she would have leapt on him, torn him limb from limb and devoured him completely like a frenzied Maenad after a night worshipping Bacchus. And he gladly would have let her. He’d gladly sacrifice himself at the altar of her hunger. He’d never felt wanted like that before in his life. 

And it was slowly driving him mad. 

Had it been just a fleeting moment? Instinct told him no. Why would she be fleeing from him, otherwise? He was now 90% sure there was no Other (idiot) Harry, no Prince of England. After she looked at him like that, what Other Harry could she have possibly been thinking about? 

How hard, and for how long, has she been hiding this? 

Harry felt like a fool.

How was he going to get her to open up to him?

How was he going to get her to look at him like that again? 

Harry grabbed the cursed book that started all of this from his rucksack. 

_Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle._

He swore as he threw it open. Maybe this would help take his mind off of her since nothing else seemed to. 

*~*~*

_Grizelda blanched at the sound of the chime. Someone had just entered her shop. She equally dreaded—and hoped—it was the Prince, come to claim her as his once more. She knew she was being wicked, but how could she not? How could she not succumb to the Prince’s cruel lips, the pleasure they gave her so sweet it was agony. How could she not fling herself against his hard body, the way his hands knew just how she liked to be touched._

_She heard the stomp of his leather boots before she saw him._

_She couldn’t help the way her breath caught in her throat whenever she laid eyes on him, the need for him pooling between her thighs instantly. She wanted to fall onto her knees and beg and plead for him to pull out his massive cock—she couldn’t stand it a second longer._

_“Lass, the way you look at me…” the Prince said, gazing upon Grizelda with a terrible greed. “It unmans me.”_

_Grizelda dropped her gaze, mortified by how much she burned for him. Clearly, she was a sinner, a deviant—a base, savage creature that should be punished for her carnal lusts._

_The Prince crossed the room and pulled her into his embrace. “Never drop your gaze from me, Grizelda. That is a command, from your Lord Liege.” Before she could answer her assent, the Prince enveloped her lips with his own._

_Grizelda thought she would burst._

_How how was she supposed to stand this? How was she to continue surviving the way his hands blazed on her body, searing their way across her sensitive flesh? How was she supposed to breathe when his mouth wasn’t on hers, for surely this was the breath of life._

_The Prince ripped her gown open, making short work of the laces down the front. She’d as of late had a hard time explaining why she was constantly mending her gowns. “Seems I’ve gained a bit of weight,” she’d tell her concerned father. He was too frail to argue._

_He stripped her of her layers completely, until she was standing there, naked and wet and ready. The Prince eyed her from head to toe—his possession. He owned her body and mind completely, and he relished it._

_“Such a sweet sweet lass,” he whispered against her ear, making her shiver, making her skin break out in gooseflesh._

_“Please,” she finally begged quietly. She had to bite her lip to keep from begging any more, to keep from debasing herself any further._

_The Prince growled, a symphony to her ears, an audible confirmation the he too was desperate for her. She quickly looked down to see the evidence of his longing straining through his trousers._

_“I told you not to look away from me, Lass,” he growled, green eyes aflame._

_The Prince began to punish her. He began by tracing a hand slowly across her collarbone, holding her waist with the other. She knew what the Prince was doing. He knew where she wanted to be touched, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t touch her there, at the apex of her thighs, where all her desire was slowly trickling down her skin. He wouldn’t touch her there until she begged._

_“Please,” she exhaled again. His hand was now exploring the curves of her breasts._

_“Please what,” the Prince asked. His voice was a gravelly murmur against her ears, and she thought she would explode from need._

_“Please…” and on impulse, she grabbed his hand and placed it between her thighs. She was a wanton, brazen girl. She looked at the Prince, her eyes wide with pleasure and the relief._

_The Prince groaned and slid two fingers into her effortlessly. “You’re so ready for me, Grizelda,” he growled into her ear with appreciation and approval._

_Unable to wait a second longer, he pulled out his large, voracious cock from his trousers._

*~*~*

Harry dropped the book, his pulse racing.

He’d been picturing himself and Hermione acting out the entire scene—this was definitely _not_ helping take his mind off of her. 

This was _most definitely_ not going to help him get any sleep that night. He could picture it already—tossing and turning with images of Hermione trussed up in a tight bodice, breasts heaving, his fingers plunging into her warm, wet… 

Harry ran a hand through his hair as he paced. He was already at his wit’s end—he was equally wound up and exhausted. He needed to be put into a coma.

_A coma._

Itching for something to do, to get out of his sordid headspace—and perhaps solve his very serious sleep deprivation issues—he sought out the Potions dungeon. Maybe Susan would be able to help him with a Draught of Living Death? 

“Sure Harry, I think I have stash set aside for Hannah, but I can definitely spare some for you,” Susan Bones said kindly after Harry practically collapsed into her dungeon. “Let me go look in the storeroom real quick.” 

Harry entertained himself by poking around the various vials and cauldrons brewing about the room. He was still slightly out of breath from racing down there from his rooms, which were on the opposite side of the castle. It was late enough that not very many students were in the halls to witness this mad display; luckily Susan had still been in the dungeon preparing for her next morning’s class. He bent over to watch the interesting shapes of steam puffing out of one cauldron in particular…

And was instantly blasted by the smell of vanilla.

Parchment.

Ink. 

The scents were so overwhelming, he nearly fell over in delirium. His stomach felt like it’d been kicked with pleasure. 

_What was this?_

“Oh, I see you’ve found the Amortentia,” Susan said conversationally as she appeared from out of the storeroom. “Our sixth years have been brewing it. It’s been quite a controversial few days as we’ve perfected it, as you can imagine. That was the batch I brewed as an example. It’s perfect.” She beamed as she handed Harry the vial containing a small amount of the Draught of Living Death. “Remember to only take two drops. You don’t want to knock yourself out for a week!”

_If she only knew._

Harry thanked her copiously before heading out back to his room, still thinking about the implications of what he’d smelled in the Amortentia, and how physically powerful it had felt. He’d smelled Amortentia plenty of times throughout the years, both at school during Slughorn’s lessons, and at the Weasleys’ shop, but never before had it quite affected him like this.

_Bloody hell._

Back in his room, Harry wasted no time in taking the two drops of the potion. 

_He did not want to think about this._

For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

*~*~*

The next morning, Harry awoke to find his bedside lamp already on, and Hermione sitting on the edge of his bed. He yelped, nearly falling over. His brain was still asleep, too muddled to understand what was happening. Instinctually, he sat up and reached for his glasses on the bedside table.

“Sorry to frighten you,” Hermione said. She looked away from him, a slight blush to her cheeks. “Maybe I should let you dress first?” he noted the way she glanced back at his chest before turning away again. 

Harry blinked, the effects of the potion still loosening, and looked down. He was shirtless. This wasn’t new to Hermione. She’d seen him shirtless quite often over the years, had often slept with him in this state, hand on his bare chest. Why was she acting so—

_Oh._

It suddenly clicked in Harry’s still wakening mind. He looked down at his chest and smirked. 

Hermione was unraveling. 

_About bloody time._

Now fully awake, he noticed that she was dressed in a sweatshirt and leggings. “Ready to go for a run?” he asked. He pretended to casually scratch his chest in order to draw her eyes back.

It worked. 

She flushed even further and stood up, turning away from him. “Not just a run—I was hoping you could really put me through the wringer. I’m aware you do other exercises and I just—I want to collapse with exhaustion at the end of the day, and I figured some healthy cardiovascular exertion would do just that.” She turned back to look at him once more, hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. 

That was when Harry saw the shadows under her eyes. Hermione was having trouble sleeping.

_Welcome to the club._

Harry took that moment of her uninterrupted focus to stretch again, pulling his arms over his head and then out to the sides, heaving his chest out, flexing his biceps, feeling the slight pops of pressure released along his spine. He let out an involuntary groan of pleasure and looked up to find Hermione watching him, teeth now firmly buried into the corner of her bottom lip. 

Harry tried hard not to grin. He worked hard for his body and was proud of it, and was pleased to see Hermione’s reaction. 

“Er…you should get dressed,” she squeaked. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” 

She fled his room. 

*~*~*

“Again.” Harry cried as Hermione struggled through her fourth set of burpees. 

“But you said that the last set was the final one,” Hermione whined, but still keeping pace. 

They were standing by the lake on a flat area of grass, near the shadow of a large Wiggentree. The dawn over the lake was beautiful. Harry recalled the morning walks he and Hermione used to take during the Triwizard Tournament—this was definitely a more pleasant experience, now that his life wasn’t at stake.

Though, by the looks of her, Hermione probably wouldn’t agree. She was now face down on the cold, wet, grass, swearing.

“You said you wanted to be put _through the wringer_. Your words exactly,” Harry grinned. There was something about the whole exercise that was uniquely invigorating—maybe it was the sounds of Hermione begging for mercy. 

_No mercy._

“Yes, but I didn’t ask for you to _kill me_.” She was now on her back, pulling one knee toward her stomach in a stretch. “We’ve ran four miles, drilled squats, jump squats, lunges, jumping lunges, jumping a million other things—do we really need _burpees_?”

Harry dropped down onto his knees next to her. “This is your cool-down.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh shove it Potter, you’re just being a tyrant.” 

Harry didn’t contradict her. He was well-rested for the first time in what felt like ages; this workout was mild in comparison to what he usually put himself through. Hermione was with him, and they were just hanging out. Like normal. All in all, this was a very pleasant morning in his purview. 

She was still pulling on her right leg. Harry noted, skin growing warmer, that she was actually quite…nimble? 

If Harry had been wearing a tie, he’d pull it. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked. She seemed to be in some discomfort. 

Hermione breathed heavily. “I think I have a cramp running along the back of my thigh, and I can’t seem to stretch it out. I think I need more weight.” Hermione took another deep breath. “Can you help me?”

It took Harry a second to realize what she was asking him to do. “Weight? You need me to er…” 

“Yes, come over here, I need you to put your weight on me.” Hermione was flushed, but Harry considered that she had just been doing burpees, so it could easily still be that. 

_Or not._

Harry crawled over to her side, facing her, trying not to panic. _This wasn’t a good idea_.

Hermione lifted her right leg straight into the air and hooked it over Harry’s right shoulder. “Ok, now push forward,” she instructed. 

Harry bent over, still on his knees, and slowly pushed his body weight down toward Hermione. Her leg extended down, down down…until her knee was practically at her shoulder. Her muscles didn’t resist much—not all. He had one hand on the ground, and the other was wrapped around her ankle—an image that was slowly driving him crazy. He was distinctly, _acutely_ aware of the low hum of pleasure coming from Hermione as his weight stretched and soothed the aching muscles and tendons in her hamstring. 

“Yes, _more_ ,” she breathed, and pulled him down even harder, piling more of his weight onto her. She seemed to be operating on instinct, her eyes closed in contentment, breathing through the stretch. Harry’s body shifted, inching ever closer to hers. He was going dizzy with the image of Hermione’s leg hooked over his shoulder, his mind running wild at the thought of _another_ scenario that would lead to a similar bodily position. He was drowning in the scent of vanilla, soft and teasing in the open breeze by the lake. He looked down at her face, inching closer and closer as her body slowly gave way. Her furrowed brow, her slightly parted lips, her body beneath his—he thought he would surely spontaneously combust at any moment. 

He shifted his hips away from her, afraid that she would _feel_ the effect that she had on him. He needed a distraction, some topic of conversation to keep himself from bending forward even more and devouring her sweet, parted lips. “You’re handling the stretch well,” Harry said, voice considerably lower than usual. “I would never be able to get my leg that far back, let alone stand the pain.” 

Hermione blinked her eyes open as if suddenly remembering where she was. “I did yoga four times a week in Dublin,” she explained, cheeks pink. “I’ve learned to breathe through the ache, though I’ve always loved to stretch.” She closed her eyes again, and Harry felt her body give more, her leg falling even closer to her body—her leg was fully stretched out now, her ankle practically by her head. His lips were now inches from hers; he could feel her warm breath on his skin. It was agony. “I never found stretching to be a discomfort—it’s almost, pleasure.” Hermione’s voice grew husky, quiet. “The ache, to me, is a pleasure.” Hermione opened her eyes, and there it was—that piercing, scorching look, those dark eyes pooled with a need that made Harry feel exactly as he had while smelling Susan’s batch of Amortentia. 

He wanted _to die_. 

He desperately tried to blink away — to move — but it was like his body was acting of its own volition. He felt himself pressing lower and lower, Hermione’s eyes and lips coming closer and closer. She didn’t fight it, and neither did he, though he knew that if he didn’t get off of her and end this _immediately_ , he would make a spectacle of himself, right there, out on the grass, in front of the lake, for all of Hogwarts to see. 

Almost as if on cue, Horace appeared, primly landing on the grass next to them with a well-timed, pompous _hoot_. 

The spell was broken. 

Horace gazed at Harry in utter distaste, as if he could read his thoughts and couldn’t believe how crude and wretched his master was. 

“I should probably take that,” Harry said, remorsefully extricating himself from Hermione. He retrieved the scroll from Horace—he didn’t know whether he wanted to hug the bird or broil it. 

Hermione sat up, a slightly dazed look on her face. “Is everything all right?” she asked, frowning in concern.

Or disappointment. 

Harry groaned. “It’s just from Neville. Wants us to pop round for lunch this afternoon.”

*~*~*

Harry paced.

If he’d been a smoker, this would have been the perfect moment to partake. However, he wasn’t a smoker. He did have _some_ dignity. 

So instead, he seized the flask he hid in his desk and took a strong sip of Ogden’s finest. 

He was _a drinker_. 

“Merlin, I’d love a good smidge of Ogden’s,” sighed Lockhart’s portrait, staring wistfully at Harry’s flagon. “It’s my favorite, you know.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Nobody asked you.” 

Of all the portraits that have been hung in Hogwarts throughout the centuries…and he had to deal with _this one_. 

He had Angelina to thank for that. 

After Lockhart left Hogwarts for St. Mungo’s, memory gone, all of his belonging and multiple portraits had been packed and sent along with him. All except one—it was a mystery to all (it was Peeves) how it had gotten lost. But somehow, it found its way back into this office. Remus had dealt with it amicably enough—he’d kept it hung and seemed unperturbed by Lockhart constantly butting in with his (wildly inaccurate) opinions. Barty Crouch Jr., not one to deal with any nonsense, took it down and hid it away in a storeroom, covered and turned to a wall. And there it gathered dust until Angelina apparently found it. Harry recalled that while a student at Hogwarts, she had been one of the many girls who had been dazzled by his chiseled face and cheeky grin. 

And now it was back up on a wall, and there it remained. 

Harry had already, on multiple occasions, threatened the portrait with swift removal if he didn’t behave himself. But somehow, Harry always ended up caving when faced with Lockhart’s hysterical weeping and insistence that he was afraid of the dark. Harry always capitulated—how could _he_ , of all people, ever lock someone away in a murky cupboard? Even if it technically wasn’t a someone—just a portrait. 

“Ok, so tell me—who is she?” Lockhart put down his brush and stopped painting the portrait of himself that he was painting within his portrait. How meta. 

Harry continued his pacing, a scowl on his face. “None of your concern.” 

Lockhart scratched his chin in thought. “Based on the visits you receive in this office; I am going to surmise it’s that brown-haired girl. The chic one that has a sort of vintage pin-up style.” Lockhart nodded approvingly. “Girl sure does know her silhouettes.”

Harry bristled. “Careful, Lockhart.” The last thing Harry needed was to be annoyed by the way _a portrait_ was looking at Hermione. 

Lockhart settled down into a nearby armchair. “Listen, young man, while I’ve never had to deal with unrequited love myself as…I mean…well look at me,” he said, flashing his cheesiest grin. “I have seen others experience such rejection throughout my vast travels and adventures—maybe I can be of some assistance?” 

Harry considered whether perhaps it was best to just _burn_ the portrait? 

“The love isn’t unrequited,” Harry snarled. He really was going to get into it. _With a portrait._

_Of Gilderoy Lockhart._

Lockhart nodded. “So, you’re saying it’s requited, then?”

Harry mauled his face with his hands. It’s not like he really had anyone else to talk about this with—he’d never really had that kind of friendship with Ron. The only person he’d ever talked to about romantic entanglements was, well, _Hermione_. “I don’t know,” he replied. “That’s what I am trying to figure out.” 

“Have you considered a Big Gesture?” 

“A—what?” Harry’s brow furrowed.

Lockhart clapped his hands in delight. “A Big Gesture! You know, hiring an orchestral symphony to surprise her, filling her room with baby pink roses, buying her my entire literary collection…”

Harry took another sip from his flask.

_A Big Gesture._

Harry hadn’t really reflected on the romance aspect—his mind had been overrun by sheer blind lust. 

_What would Hermione consider romantic?_

His lifelong best mate, and he didn’t have a clue to start with. The typical things that Hermione _would not_ deem romantic came easily enough. For starters, the idea of the roses was out—Hermione wasn’t much of a ' _flowers'_ girl. She was heavily allergic to a lot of plants—one former suitor had famously caused her to develop hay fever for three straight weeks. 

_Jewelry_? Randomly giving her jewelry out of nowhere felt awkward, not soundly strategic…

Chocolates? Wine? While she’d love either option, preferably both together, it felt oddly weird and impersonal…definitely not in the realm of a Big Gesture. A nice night out? Dinner? But where? It’s not like a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks was going to cut it. They’d done that a million times… 

“Blimey, aside from books I haven’t the slightest idea what Hermione would like!” Harry said, voice panicked. 

“As I was saying, my entire literary collection…” Lockhart reiterated

“But books aren’t a Big Gesture! They’re just…books!” Harry kicked his desk in frustration, causing the stacks of books and parchments on its surface to fall over onto the floor in a whirling mess. 

“Merlin’s bloomin’ arse,” Harry muttered, bending over to pick up the fallen items. Harry had never been particularly great at romance to begin with…it was one of the many reasons why he was still single, after all. But this was different. This was his lifelong best friend. It was _Hermione_. It had to be something _spectacular_. If not in scale, then in…honesty. 

At the core of it, he just had to be _honest_. Vulnerable. 

As Harry restacked the parchments and books back on his desk, he stopped to stare in surprise at one of the tomes he discovered.

 _Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_ by _Hadrian Whittle._

He thought he’d kept it stashed somewhere in his room. He never had gotten around to returning it to Hermione. She didn’t miss it; clearly, she had moved on to the sequel and probably assumed she had lost this copy somewhere. 

Harry stood, taking the book over to his desk. He studied the cover as he took another sip from his flask. He had seen Hermione devour this book and its sequel. Clearly, there was something in the text that she connected with, something that appealed to her. He thought about the Prince—how the Prince had just breezed into Grizelda’s shop and taken her, not a care in the world. Strong, confident, dominant—the Prince had not held back his desire. Obviously, his life wasn’t a medieval romance—he wasn’t about to waltz into the library, rip Hermione’s clothes off and throw her onto the nearest table…despite how desperately he wanted to. 

Lockhart interrupted his brooding. “You could write her poetry?” he suggested unhelpfully. “A sonnet perhaps? How I adore a sonnet. I myself have written many, all quite brilliant, and regret that I never did publish them…” 

Harry was about to throw his flask at the portrait when the spark of an idea struck him. 

_Writing._

Harry couldn’t physically throw Hermione down and tear her smart little dresses off…not yet at least…but he could…on parchment? 

_What if he wrote her a story?_

A story about them. About his feelings, his desires. About the way he burned for her, the things he wanted to do to her. He didn’t consider himself the best writer, but he did have _Hadrian Whittle_ here as inspiration, and he had spent a better part of the decade going over his essays with the Brightest Witch of Their Age. Some of it must have rubbed off…

But could he do it? Could he really make himself so honest, so vulnerable? A part of him was terrified that Hermione would read it and become embarrassed, upset—throw it in his face. What if he’d been building up this thing between them in his head and she felt nothing in return? Could he bear it? Harry ran his hands through his hair. He had no other choice. He had to let her know—either way, he couldn’t stand the current impasse. And he knew Hermione. Regardless of whether she felt the same for him or not, she would never treat him unkindly. And it’s not like he had to give it to her—he could write it, decide the whole idea was rubbish, and burn it with fire. 

And so, Harry took a long draught from his flask and began to write. 

*~*~*


	4. The Parchment

*~*~*

_I quietly watch her from afar. I’m always watching her. It seems I’ve always been watching her. There's a part of me that feels like I could spend the rest of my life looking at her, and it would never be enough._

_She sits in the empty library. It’s late, way past the students’ curfew. The only sound that can be heard is the scratch, scratch, scratching of her quill…the only light on in the entire space is trained on her. She looks like an angel sitting there, hair up in a messy bun, curls haphazardly falling everywhere like a halo. I want to run my fingers through them, tuck them back into place._

_I struggle with whether to interrupt her or not. She seems to be in her working rhythm and I feel selfish for wanting her attention. But I’m like an addict—I need to hear her voice, to look at her eyes as she looks at me. We’ve been avoiding each other lately, and I can hardly stand it. She stops writing for a moment and runs the feather of her quill against her bottom lip in thought._

_That’s it._

_I can’t anymore._

_“Working late?” I finally interrupt, hating myself for the addict’s relief I feel when her eyes meet mine. Large, dark eyes, surrounded by irresistibly thick lashes. I can’t wait to look into them while I’m on top of her._

_She glances at her wrist, at a gold-plated watch I’d given her years ago as a gift. The face of the watch has an etching of a Time-Turner on it. She laughed delightedly when I gave it to her—a reminder of our little adventure. “Goodness, I didn’t know it was this late! It’s well past midnight.”_

_As if the knowledge of the hour suddenly made her weary, she lifts her arms out in a stretch, arching her back, closing her eyes. I can hear the soft popping of her joints, and the low hum of pleasure as she feels the release of pressure. She blinks her eyes open, and I want to drown in the dark, blissful look in her eyes that she throws my way..._

_Is that how she’ll look up at me when I’m pounding into her?_

_I cool my thoughts, an attempt to keep some semblance of my quickly fleeting control. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask, voice hoarse._

_She smiles blearily. “If you’d been sitting here all day, bent over a pile of books, you’d understand.” She tilts her head to the side, closes her eyes, and begins to dig the knuckle of her thumb into the sinewy junction where her neck meets her shoulder._

_The sounds she makes are obscene; my mouth waters._

_I want to be a good friend. I want to be able to casually walk over to her, press my fingertips to her neck and help—to knead her muscles, be the reason behind her sighs and whimpers. But the rational part of me knows that if I lay even a single finger on her to assist, I will be done._

_Done._

_Completely and thoroughly done._

_Unable to resist the devil on my shoulder urging me, begging me to—_

_Touch her._

_Kiss her._

_Spread her out on the nearest surface and take her._

_She opens her eyes and throws me a satisfied look, her mouth puckered into an O of pleasure._

_Fuck._

_Before I can even begin contemplating my exit strategy, she summons me with her wand. “Accio, Harry Potter!”_

_I zoom to her side immediately. “Did you summon me?” I ask, shocked, impressed. I’d never summoned a human before. Was that even a thing?_

_She grins, and grabs my right hand, pressing my thumb to the side of her neck. “I need you right here,” she says, pressing my thumb down exactly where she needs me with a sigh. She grips my hand and begins moving my fingers in the pattern that she wants; four fingers pressing down onto her shoulders, cajoling the muscle open. She then closes my hand and replaces my fingers with my knuckles, digging them in deep as her moans catch in her throat, sending a jolt straight to my cock. Next, she wants my thumb digging right into the apex of her neck and shoulder, while my pointer and index fingers press up higher, near where here neck meets the base of her skull. I have to stop myself from fisting her hair and pulling it back—_

_All in due time._

_Her left hand, which at first sat idly next to her on the table, reaches behind her to grab mine, squeezing it tightly as my right hand digs deeper and her whimpers become more strained, the blood rushing away from my head in reply._

_“Is this hurting you?” I ask with concern as I feel her hand crushing mine again._

_“Yes,” she replies dreamily, and my right hand stops moving._

_“No, don’t stop. Yes, it hurts…but it also feels so good,” she presses her fingers on top of my right hand again, urging me on. “Harder.” I clench her left hand._

_I’m reminded of our morning by the lake, when she described the ache she felt during stretching. I tuck away this nugget of information—Hermione doesn’t mind…discomfort. Not if it’s followed or accompanied by pleasure. I stifle a groan at the realization, of the possibilities._

_My knuckles dig into her shoulder and she cries out, her left hand squeezing mine. I squeeze it back._

_I wonder if this is one of her tells?_

_As my right thumb digs deeper into a knot in her neck, her left hand clutches mine tighter, pulling so that now they both rest on her left breast. My knuckles graze her hardened nipple as she relaxes her hold slightly._

_My pulse races. It was just an accidental graze, Potter. Calm down._

_My right hand grips her shoulder tightly, an attempt to steady myself, but her answering whimper almost unravels me—her left hand clenches mine again and now she’s literally pressing my wrist right against her nipple._

_I’m burning._

_Burning._

_She loosens the slack on my hand just slightly, and my fingers explore. Her nipple is hard. A pebble. I am lightly rolling a pebble against my fingertips. I’m holding my breath, but I can hear hers come through as shallow gasps, and I don’t know if it’s a result of where my right hand is still tensely gripping the muscles of her shoulder, or whether it’s because of my thoughtless, irresponsible fingertips._

_My fingertips do not move, they do not stop. She doesn’t stop them. In fact, she presses my hand to her breast even harder. I can hear the relief in her exhale when my hand cups her completely, and that is it—_

_That is all I needed to hear._

_Almost as if she could read my mind, she springs out of her chair and I push it away. She turns to look at me, that dark, molten look in her eye, the one I’ve been needing to see again, the look that makes me feel like a meal that’s about to be devoured, and I can’t stand another second without her in my arms._

_I seize her like a brute—there is no more finesse left in me, no more ability to tiptoe around and push it away. My hands are in her hair, pulling her to me, my lips on her forehead and I’m drowning in vanilla, in the smell of parchment and ink, but somehow there’s no air in my lungs and my skin is on fire and I can’t press her to me close enough. My fingers undo her bun, only so that I can tug on her hair and expose her neck for my inspection—my enjoyment._

_“Harry,” she breathes. I can feel her shaking against me. I hum into her neck, gorging myself on her scent. She smells delicious, like every craving I’ve ever had wrapped up into one neat little package. For my cock._

_And suddenly I can’t hold back a second longer and my lips are on hers and I’m sucking her lower lip between mine, pressing my tongue into her mouth and she’s whimpering and tugging at my shirt and wrapping an arm around my neck and clutching me to her and she’s driving me crazy. I don’t know how, but she’s now sitting on the table, knees spread and I’m standing between them, grinding my erection into that sweet sweet spot that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I saw her in the bathtub, crying out my name as she made herself come._

_“Oh Harry,” she moans as my lips suck on a tender spot on her neck._

_I’m going to fuck her._

_I’m going to shag her here, right here and right now, because I know in my gut that I won’t be able to stop. Unless she stops me, unless she clearly tells me no, there is no way I am going to be able to stop myself. I know it’s ungentlemanly, I know it’s uncouth and savage and Horace has every right to judge me, but how am I supposed to stop with her saying my name like that? Sod whoever walks through the library doors!_

_My hands grip her thighs and then push up, pulling her dress along with them. I love this dress—it’s the black, skintight sweater dress I’ve composed sonnets to in the shower, but now I need it gone—it’s too much clothing when all I want is skin._

_My hands find the fabric of her lacy knickers and I can’t help myself; I dip a hand down to the honeypot and sweet Merlin’s beard she’s wet. Her knickers are soaked straight through and it’s like a shot of adrenaline to my veins, all I can think is that she wants me; she’s ready and she wants me and she’s ready and I’m going to explode if I don’t plunge into her immediately._

_We stop for a second, breathing each other in, forehead to forehead. My eyes meet hers, and whatever she sees in them makes her reach for her wand. “Colloportus,” she says with a flick and the doors to the library close and lock but instead it’s like she unlocks me._

_My tongue plunges into her mouth and my fingers plunge into her, into her hot wet center, and my knees go weak at the sensation. She feels so hot and wet and good, she’s going to feel so good…_

_I hook my two fingers and feel around for that slight secret ridge and I find it immediately. Hermione goes tense against me, her hands gripping my shoulders and her ankles hooking around my thighs, her heels falling off her feet. The pads of my two eager little fingertips massage in an up and down motion, slow at first but then going faster and faster as Hermione’s reactions spur me on. Her breath comes in short little high-pitched gasps and she exposes her neck to my greedy mouth. “Is this what you do to yourself,” I growl, my voice low against her earlobes as I nibble and lick. “Is this what you do when you’re all alone, thinking of me?”_

_Hermione clutches me tighter and tighter as my fingers continue, relentless. “Yes,” she half stutters, half sobs. “You’re all I think about, every night when I make myself come…Harry….I’m going to come…you’re going to make me come…please.”_

_Hearing her confirm it makes my cock swell impossibly; hearing her beg makes me desperate. I use my other hand to rub my thumb against her clit while my fingers are still inside her, and she comes with a cry—I muffle the sound with a kiss since I don’t recall us using a soundproofing charm. And while the castle is big, with ghosts floating around—I don’t want to attract an audience._

_She sags against me, forehead pressed to my chest. I let her relax and enjoy herself for a moment, but I want her hungry and needy again. “I’m going to take this off now,” I tell her and tug at her dress. She nods and lifts her arms to help me._

_Once the dress is off, my eyes feast... She’s still in her black lacy knickers and a matching black bra. Simple, but classic._

_Lockhart was right; she does know her silhouettes._

_Even though I admire the undergarments, I need them gone as well._

_I free her breasts first. They’re small, but enough to fill my hands and perfect. I want them to fill my mouth._

_I bend over and place one delectable breast in my mouth. Hermione pulls me to her, arching against me, grasping my hand and bringing it up to squeeze her other breast. I am a savage with no self-control, and I suck and bite my way over and between her breasts as Hermione trembles against me, clutching me harder. I can already see where my teeth will leave marks._

_I feel Hermione’s shaking hands toy with the collar of my shirt. I pull away from her breasts and look at her, lips swollen, eyes heavy-lidded. She’s exquisite._

_I watch as Hermione’s quivering fingers go down the row of buttons on my shirt, unbuttoning each one. Her pupils darken as she exposes every new inch of my chest. It’s intoxicating to witness. She presses both hands to my now exposed pectorals, caressing them across until she lands on my shoulders and helps me pull off the shirt completely. Her hands touch and grasp my biceps, and she bites her lower lips, eliciting a needy moan that makes my blood boil. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of watching her want me._

_As if my bare skin unleashes something in her, she clutches me, pulling me down into a fierce kiss, all teeth, and bites and frantic, her hands and fingernails wreaking havoc across my arms and my back. Her lips and tongue are like tiny grenades against my bare skin as she nibbles and licks her way across my chest, her lips landing crushingly against my bicep. Her fingers dig into my forearms, her legs wrap around me and pull me flush against her as she clutches my arms and bites and bites and the pain is pleasure as she licks the sting._

_I tug on her hair to bring her eyes up to meet mine and I see it, that dark hunger, and I grind my erection against her. She crushes her eyes closed and pulls my forehead to hers. “I need it,” she whispers against my ear and it takes every ounce of strength in me not lose my mind completely._

_With one delicate sweep of her arms, she throws everything off of her desk. Her neatly piled stacks of reference books, her parchments, her quills and ink. Her neat little desk supplies all thrown to the floor because Hermione Granger wants me to fuck her on it, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen._

_And then she’s clutching my belt buckle, ripping it off, unbuttoning my pants and pulling me onto the desk with her._

_I panic briefly at the idea that someone would burst into the library and immediately see the spotlight that was on Hermione’s desk, where I was currently on top of her dressed in nothing but black trousers, and she in her knickers, wrapping her legs around my hips and begging for my cock._

_And then I think fuck it and help her remove the rest of our clothing._

_Once everything is off and we’re both completely bare, I try not to come at the sight of her draped on her desk, spread and wet for me. She’s eyeing my cock, biting her lip…a good sign…but her forehead is furrowed. “What’s wrong?” I ask._

_She sits back onto her elbows. “Ron was right to be jealous of you. It really is unfair,” she says, reaching out one hand to grasp my cock. Her hand is soft, warm, firm._

_I half chortle, half groan. “So you approve?”_

_“Approve? I’m bloody petrified. In a pleasant way.”_

_I stretch myself out on top of her and kiss her, slowly, deeply, until she’s writhing against me, pulling my hips down with her legs so that my cock rubs against her opening. It’s exquisite torment. “You still petrified?”_

_“Yes,” she answers, her dark eyes like saucers. “But you know how I feel about pain.”_

_She is going to kill me._

_Despite her confidence, I dip two fingers inside her to make sure she’s wet enough._

_She is._

_“Open yourself for me, luv,” I command against her ear, and Hermione obediently drops two hands and spreads herself open, offering herself to me so sweetly, and I want to melt._

_It takes everything in me not to growl like an animal when I first push into her. She’s soft, like warm velvet, and while I know I should be delicate and gentle I am nothing of the sort. I shove my entire length into her completely. Hermione digs her fingernails into my shoulder blades in response and makes a pained sound of relief. “Don’t stop,” she pleads and that’s all I need to hear._

_I thrust and thrust into her wildly, not a thought for anything but how good it feels, how good she feels, how I might go permanently cross-eyed at the sensations. I thrust and think of other things to keep from coming, I think of all the papers I need to review, the lesson plans I need to draw up, what the elves might prepare for breakfast the next day, if they could bring us breakfast in bed or if that would cause a scandal, but then I’m distracted by Hermione’s breasts just sitting there begging for my attention and I suck and nibble and she moans as she thrusts up against me and it feels so amazing oh fuck I’m going to come, I’m going to come if I don’t think of something else to distract me and she kisses me and bites my biceps and digs her fingernails across my back and I attack her neck and I can’t get close enough to her, I can’t get deep enough, and I wonder if she’s feeling the same thing when she digs her fingers into the muscles of my arse and pulls me closer, her legs coiling tighter and tighter around me, her sweet little gasps urging me on, and I can feel her insides clench and heat up and she’s so impossibly wet and I don’t know how I am going to hold myself back a second longer._

_But somehow, I rally, and I pull her right leg over my shoulder like I’ve been wanting to for days, since the day by the lake, and I kiss her ankle and calf and think about her and getting her there and how I need to KEEP MY BLOODY EYES ON THE PRIZE and tighten my thigh muscles and keep myself from coming and Merlin’s fucking thumbs she feels too good and from somewhere far away I know I groan these words into her hair and it smells like vanilla and parchment and sex and me and it’s magic and dizzying and I feel like I am going to pass out from the pleasure and the strain but then I feel her body tense beneath me, her back arching, her hands clutching my hair wildly and I hear the sweet sweet words I’ve been longing to hear._

_“Oh Harry…I’m coming Harry, I’m coming, you’re making me come...”_

_And then I let go._

*~*~*

With shaking hands, face aflame, Hermione drops the parchment onto her desk.

What on earth had she just read?

*~*~*


End file.
